Archive for the ‘Kevin Gosselin’ tag

Editor’s note: Works of automotive fiction are few and far between, which is why we were excited to hear that author, racer and collector Kevin Gosselin has just released another Faston Hanks novel, Hunt for the Blower Bentley, which follows the intrepid detective as he searches for Blower Bentley SM 3912, the only unaccounted-for Blower Bentley. We convinced Kevin to allow us to run an exclusive excerpt here on the Hemmings Blog.

PROLOGUE
Portsmouth, England May 1939

Stephan was glad that Fowkes, the cousin of engineer D. H. Sessions, had a gambling problem. A huge, debt-inducing gambling problem. A gambling problem that caused him to take silly, errant risks. Fowkes’ gambling problem had even caused him to steal items from his rich relative to pay his bills. And Stephan was often the man to buy those items because D.H. had exquisite taste in all things.

Noticing the time was nine o’clock, Stephan finished his Young’s pint with a final gulp, put on his hat and walked out of the Sailor’s Return pub to go meet Fowkes. It was just a few blocks down Prospect Street to their meeting place, an alcove that had once been used to stable horses. Instead of a pair of nags, there was close to 200 horsepower, in the form of a Bentley with a blower hung off the front stabled there tonight.

Stephan walked straight up to the right-hand side of the car and peered through the glass at the driver. Fowkes’ face was cut across by one of the three wiper blades that had parked vertically. It was easy to see he was scared and desperate like a street dweller with empty pockets and emptier stomach.

Getting out of the car, Fowkes shut the door but kept his hand on it as if he needed a bit of a support. As if he couldn’t stand on his own.

“This is it then.” Stephan stated like fact but structured like a question.

“It is.”

“I thought it had a fabric body?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it did when it first left the factory, maybe it didn’t. Who cares?”

“I care. A leather body would have been a bit lighter. But regardless, how long ago did you take it?”

“A week.”

Stephan felt the blood fill has face. He was told it would be freshly purloined. Not stale.

The cousin must have noticed the change in his expression and explained before Stephan could erupt. “D.H. has been busy. Called in to help run Bailey’s factory near Leith.”

“What sort of factory?”

“Don’t know. A part of a part of a submarine.”

Interesting, thought Stephan, a nice bit of information to file away for later.

“How much you owe?” Stephan asked the cousin; if he were as bad a negotiator as he was a gambler this would be a strong first opening move.

“I don’t owe much.” Fowkes said with a straight face and strained voice. “Not what this car is worth, that’s for sure.”

“That car is only worth what someone will pay for it. A car is never worth a thought.”

“Right.” The cousin forced a laugh. Stephan knew he wanted to play like he was a chum. A pal.

“I didn’t mean to be funny. I’m not here to chat like a couple of birds. I am here to buy a car and not tell anyone where I bought it. This will benefit me. And it will benefit you. And the mutually beneficial number I am thinking about is 1,000 pounds.”

The cousin rolled his eyes up a bit as if he were figuring sums. Stephan wouldn’t have been surprised if he stuck out his tongue. It took a minute, but the cousin answered. “You see. You and I know what this car is worth. D.H. paid dearer than 3,000 pounds for it. And, he just had a bit of work done to it down at Gilbert’s here in town. I just collected it last month from there. And because of all that, I’m gonna need 1,500.”

“Is it because of the work done or the debt owed?”

“The work done, mate. The work done.”

“It is in fine fettle, but not a lot of people are splashing out on cars now, are they?”

“A few are. I just saw a new reg on a Rolls not two weeks ago.”

“And were they willing to talk about it?” The cousin didn’t answer. “Fewer, I would say. Now, I am charitable. 1,200 pounds.”

Stephan then held out his hand.

Fowkes spat in his.

“What are we, out at the dogs? Here’s the money.” Stephan thrust the elusive, large and dirty wad of bills at the cousin and got into the car.

After a minute of familiarization with the bristling-with-gauges dash, Stephan set the retarder, put the hand throttle on and started up the Blower. Stephan then slid the small pistol out of his pants pocket, wrapped it in his scarf and held it an inch from the head of the cousin who was standing next to the door counting his money. Pulling the trigger, Stephan watched the cousin get pushed back into the brick wall and slump down to the ground.

With the Bentley idling, Stephan stepped out of the car, snatched back his 1,200 pounds and quickly jumped back into the driver’s seat. Cranking hard on the cord-wrapped wheel, Stephan snicked the grey Bentley’s gear lever into first, then pulled out onto Commerce Street, prepared for the blast up to Newcastle. It had taken more than a month to acquire this tool. Now he needed to use this most recent acquisition.